


No Alarms And No Surprises

by station_oracle



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Darkest Timeline, F/M, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mild Sexual Content, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:43:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6320626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/station_oracle/pseuds/station_oracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They made it back to Earth, but things don't go as planned. The saddest thing I've ever written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Alarms And No Surprises

It's five years after they're back and Minkowski phones up Eiffel. He doesn't know where did she get his number, but it's kinda obvious to him that if she ever wanted it, she would get it. She's quiet, there is not even a shadow of a proud commander in her voice. 

They meet up in a pizza place near his flat. Doug doesn't know she had to drive for four hours to get there.

She looks... sadder. She's thinner now, her hands gone from slender to almost bony. Doug doesn't know what to think of it. Maybe it's just how she aged? This once-rigorously fit woman? Impossible. But he can't ask, can he.

Her fingers are restless, toying with a corner of her placemat. Her lips, ever thinner, still manage to smile when he orders pineapple and ham pizza. He calls it an abomination and he's not even offended.

They are waiting for the order. They should be making small talk, at least from what he remembered of social interaction.

The truth was, he’d showered for the first time in a week today.

Minkowski is not looking at him and it's a bad sign. He takes her by the hand and then she does. Tears well up in her eyes. Shit, was this a mistake? Did he do something wrong?

“My husband left me,” she says, and Doug doesn't comprehend. The last time he saw them they were perfectly happy, a model family, two of them. It wasn't that long ago, was it? Maybe it was.

He stands up, pulls his jacket over his commander's shoulders and almost walks into their waitress. He pays and takes food to go. He escorts Minkowski to his flat, mentally kicking himself for the mess. But then, there is nothing he can do with one of the strongest people he knows silently sobbing in the middle of this neighbourhood.

He fumbles with his keys and invites her in. It smells. God, it probably reeks. He somewhat hopes she's crying too hard to smell anything. 

He opens a window, he opens a wine bottle he finds in the back of the cupboard. She's sitting on his sofa, between the heaps of trash and stacks of old DVDs he bought from a bargain bin. She still has his jacket on.

He doesn't know what to do, she's just in the middle. He considers sitting on the floor in front of her, but that would be invasive. Blocking. She needs to have a way out of here and out of this moment. He waves his hand for her to scoot over and sits beside her on the couch.

He looks at the two mismatched glasses he set on the table. His is shorter and rounder, chipped on one side. Hers is tall and whole. Both are full, until Minkowski takes her glass and downs it in one go. He picks up the bottle to fill it up again, but she stops him with a quiet "don't bother" and just takes the bottle itself. She considers it for a moment, weights it in her hand, then pours herself a drink and sets it down on the floor in an act of resignation.

"Reneé?" He tries to keep himself from cringing, because it just doesn't feel right, even though she insisted to use her first name when they are home. He bites his lips at the mess of a woman besides him and remembers what she always did in a crisis.

"Minkowski. What happened to Koudelka?" It's rough and rude, but it gets her attention.

She looks at him, for the second time. Unblinking, as long as the tears let her. Then she starts to talk. Slowly at first, but as she goes deeper into the story her sentences grow longer. She tells him about the nightmares. About late night confessions. Drifting away. She doesn't say it straight, but Doug understands from a shift in her voice that there was something deeper. He decides not to pry into that closet. He doesn't need any more skeletons, not in his lifetime. 

Instead he listens. He holds her hand. She leans into him. 

By the time her story talks about the separation and making up and divorce (a word which she barely chokes out), she is a wet ball of sadness residing in his personal space. He pets her hair and draws patterns on her back. There is not much more he can do.

He peeks at her hands. There is a mark where the wedding ring used to be, on the right hand. He puts his palms over hers - she seems cold - and waits for her breathing to calm down. 

He wants to ask why he has to live with all that information now, what even does he have to do with the whole story? But he doesn't. 

Instead he pries her fragile form away and stands up. He puts some music on. He brings her food. He wishes he could joke as he used to, but there are no witty one-liners for someone's life breaking like that. 

He was never too great with dealing with families, anyway.

She's calmer now. When he sits back down she moves so she's facing him. He comments on her anchovies. She lets out a sigh and a faint smile crawls upon her lips. 

She's eating food. That's a good thing, he decides. He doesn't ask when was the last time she ate something. He can see the answer in plain sight, in the way how she devours the pizza. Slow, methodical. Pretending not to need it.

He can see past it. There was a time he pretended he didn't need some substances.

He shrugs off the thought and eyes the DVD collection behind her. She used to like musicals, right? He sure as hell won't put on “Mamma Mia!" for obvious reasons, and there isn't much more in that stack. Still, he is happy Minkowski is on that side of the couch, further from the porn. He manages to kick these boxes further under the table in hopes she doesn't notice.

In the end, he almost decides against watching anything, when she drops the question.

"So, what are you up to?"

Doug understands, he really does. She looks better now, she sure is feeling better. She needs to get the spotlight of the sad story away from herself. And still, there is nothing he can say that sounds like enough. She can look around this room and figure it out herself. But Eiffel knows she isn't cruel.

“Not much. I've been doing some research on the theme of the last supper reused in postmodern culture," he muses, and it makes her laugh. It is enough after all. Even if all he got was a small chuckle. That was something.

He wants to ask about something else or divert the questioning to the subject of Isabel, whatever happened to her? Instead he takes a random box from the DVD pile and puts it on. It's an old western, just enough for the background.

The wine bottle is empty and he offers her another one. She accepts. This one is just as red, but was way cheaper. It doesn't really make a difference in a situation like that, does it? Probably not. Anyway, there is another thing he should address.

"You're staying the night."

It's not a question, and that catches Minkowski a bit off-guard, but she's not protesting. She looks at the glass in her hand (tall and whole, and full of the ruby liquid) and mutters something under her breath. Then, as if realising that he didn't hear her, she repeats it.

"Thank you, Doug."

"Hey, no problem, Comm... um. Reneé." It sounds better than before. He drops down beside her again. She doesn't look like she could give orders any time soon. "I’ll move my stuff out here and get some clear sheets ready for you in the bedroom."

Suddenly, she's holding his hand. Wow, she's drunk.

"Doug? Could I..." there we go with averting eye contact again. "I can't sleep alone, Doug."

Oh.

Oh crap, of course. Nightmares.

"Sure? I mean. Yeah. Yes." It isn't going to end well, he knows it. Still, what the hell. Nothing they hadn't done before. "I'll get the blankets."

She squeezes his hand and whispers another "thank you."

As soon as Doug steps into the bedroom, he hits his head against the cold wall. This is not what he signed up for. In all honesty, he didn't sign up for anything, this time. 

He stays there, forehead pressed against the cool surface a countermeasure for the hot anger boiling in his gut. This is so not fair. She deserved better. It was supposed to be okay. She was going to be the happy one, with her husband and maybe a family, and he was too used to being the fuck up to let her have his spot.

(Although Lovelace probably takes the biscuit on that one. The last time he saw her, she was in a closed facility. They wouldn't let her eat with anything but spoons, even when she was sedated. Eiffel envied her a bit. She got the easy way out and her foggy eyes were clueless, but happy. Happier than before, at least.)

He takes his time. Breathes. Hits the wall with his fist. Then he grabs the cleanest blankets he has and carries them back to the living room.

Minkowski sits on the couch, shoes off, knees up to her chin, engrossed in the movie. She has her hands woven around herself, probably to keep herself in one piece. She's smiling though.

"Do you want to shower?" he asks, thinking if he has any clean towels.

"Do I need to shower, Eiffel?" Yup, she's drunk. And it's terrible, he thinks. She's a husk of her former self, even if she tries to keep the voice and a friendly banter. It just feels empty. Hollow.

"Suit yourself. Here's a t-shirt you can sleep in." He throws her one from a heap he thinks is clean. It should be.

She rolls her eyes and strips down to underwear. He tries not to look. He feels dirty when he catches a glimpse of her black laced bra that she then hides under his shirt and pulls out of one of the sleeves. He takes off his pants and sits down on the sofa. He downs another glass of wine.

They are friends. He should be friendly. This is totally not fucked up.

Minkowski moves closer to him and he can't help but to envelop her lithe frame with one hand. She seems so fragile and small in the threadbare tee. He slides his fingers down her arm, the skin smooth and dry. He can't feel the muscles underneath. He pulls her closer, inhaling the smell of her hair.

She's still fixated on the movie, but she grows less and less tense with every minute and every sip of wine.  
He knows he should take it away from her, but then, what's the point? Instead he can just drink more himself.

She is staring at the tv and he is watching her face lit by the blinking screen. She's what, 40? 41? The lines on her forehead aren't that deep. She doesn't look her age, not to his eyes. She's an anachronism, his unchanging Commander. They survived and it was meant to be a happy ending for her. 

He wants to let her know, but the words elude him.  
So he does what he thinks tangible and understandable. He kisses her hair, because that's probably what she's here for. She's here to forget.

She looks at him, she really sees him for a moment, and his heart skips a beat at the sadness of it all, then her hands are in his hair desperately pulling him down. She's drowning. He is her oxygen.

It never went like that before. Minkowski tended to crawl into his lap and take what she wanted out of him.  
Now she asks for it with every touch. She weighs down any resolve he could come up with.

He looms over her, propped up on one elbow, afraid to crush her. His other hand moves as if by memory, up her thigh, feeling the lace of her underwear. He thinks they match the bra and he hates himself for focusing on that detail. He doesn't check.

He rubs his thumb against a familiar spot just over her hip. It elicits a pleased hum. He keeps her in place, grounds her. She's pulling on his hair, so he ducks lower, kissing her neck.

He hears it when he moves to kiss her collarbone. She lets go of his hair. There is a sob. He presses his lips against her skin again, as if to seal the reason of her unhappiness. This time though he is wary. Listening.

"Doug, no."

He stops immediately and looks up, only to find her crying. It's terrifying. He moves away. Lays beside her. Holds her hand. All the while she's whispering apologies, as if she owed him anything.

"Mink-, Reneé. Reneé. It's okay. We don't have to do anything. There."

She curls up against his chest and he doesn't know what to do.

"I'm sorry Doug. I thought that I could but-" She takes few deep breaths. "I just can't. I thought that was the least I-" She pauses again. "I'm sorry. I can't."

He lies there, trying to take in the whole situation. His boner is going limp rapidly, thankfully. More blood to the brain. He’ll need it.

He pets her hair. He doesn't want to know the explanation to what just happened. His gut tells him he will figure it out anyway, sooner or later. It's not important now.

The movie ended, the DVD back to homescreen. The music is insufferable, so he reaches over Minkowski and mutes it.  
They lay like this for several minutes, black and white flicker from the screen their only light.

"I'm sorry, Doug-"

"Hey, don't be. It's okay."

She stirs away and looks at him. Her face is damp with tears and he wants to kiss her on both flushed cheeks, but something in her eyes stops him.

"I lost a child."

That explains so much. That is so terrible. It's unimaginable for him. He wants to comfort her, but there is no blueprint for it, nothing he could say. The only thing that comes to his mind is-

"Oh, Renee. I'm so sorry."

He doesn't know the details. He doesn't want to know, but he trusts her to tell him.

And he is not sorry. Not for this, not like that. It's not like he can imagine her pain. He always imagined her by that time with a two kids, happy with that Koudelka guy. He seemed nice enough. Although, back then he also saw himself as a valuable member of the society, which was now laughable.

She's waiting for something more, but in all honesty, he had nothing more to give her. Nothing much, at least.

"You sure you want to sleep in one bed?" With a failure like me, he half-asks.

"Yes. Please," she nods.

He lets out a long sigh and starts pulling the blankets over both of them, when she touches his arm.

"Could we cuddle?"

"Are you su-"

"Yes, Eiffel. I'm sure," she cuts him off and continues more quietly. "Just... please don't touch my abdomen."

She turns away from him, so he can be the big spoon. He turns off the tv, then carefully places himself behind her, one arm under her head, the other protectively draped over her chest.

He listens.

When her breath is quiet and regular, he clenches his jaw very tightly and waits.

When he's sure she is asleep, he finally lets himself cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Written all in one sitting. I may revisit it to add another chapter and explain some things, but for now I will leave it as completed.  
> Title stolen last minute from a Radiohead song that kinda fits.  
> Editing done by the wonderful Harpers-mirror.
> 
> I'm on tumblr as acidtygr and on twitter @rilwena. Come scream at me. Or with me. Both options work.


End file.
